Tag: soap

I want to tell you a story. Not outright a soap story, but if you can trust me a bit, know I won’t waste your time, you might see what I saw.

As some of you might know, we moved into our Hobbit home with great delight and anticipation of new beginnings. We call it our hobbit home because it’s not a large home, but suits our compact sizes perfectly.

Every cupboard, drawer and under cabinet was dirty. I spent a good couple of hours cleaning everything before we could move in and place our things inside. I did not have hardship in my heart, disappointment that this type of person to leave things in such disarray had occupied my new dwelling, but no malice floated in my chest. I set to the work, and blessed each area I touched.

Sorcery Soap Lights and Lounge

There have been some issues with out hobbit home. Before the moving date, we’d taken possession and were at the house one evening doing laundry, trying things out to ensure all was in proper condition. J walked down the hall and asked, “Why is there a river in the hall?” The water flooded the new bath, down the hall, closet, and even the new carpet in the master bedroom all the way out onto the porch.

The water feed on the new commode hadn’t been screwed correctly and it popped off when used.

After the big move-in day we soon discovered many things that had been neglected like broken drawers, a kitchen faucet that didn’t work properly, broken verticals, broken microwave, mouldy and missing grout in the second bath and the one and only smoke detector didn’t function, just to name a few things. The most disconcerting was the new bathroom remodel was missing a commode paper holder and all towel racks missing, so it wasn’t a surprise the drawer that should work couldn’t be pulled out. This was a remodel that was incomplete. My warning bells went off. This was the level of “job complete.”

I used to be an electrical contractor, for those who don’t know. If we had a punch list (incomplete things after a remodel like switch plates, receptacles, lamps – light bulbs- that needed to be installed) we would notify the tenant/new home owner and make an appointment without excuse and complete the job. I would calmly explain the process and end with, “we will make it right, no worries”.

With all this said, after waiting to be called by the handyman, making calls to follow-up and much ridiculousness, I finally got in touch with the handyman. I mentioned that the remodel wasn’t complete and that’s when he yelled at me. So much so J could hear it across the room. When someone is that out of control and they cannot hear you, it’s best to end the call. Let’s call him Sam. I said, “Sam, Sam… I have another call and really need to take it.” He made a sardonic laugh and continued to yell. I interrupted his tirade and he accused me of not listening, so when I tried to explain he interrupted me… This went on for awhile until I finally insisted I needed to get off the phone and was fully prepared to hang up.

I’ve learned a lot from construction. When pointing out someone’s low quality work – in a polite way or less than polite way – the only reaction they can give is anger. They do not hold themselves accountable and are therefore not responsible to others. Their only way to deal is to attack, with words or otherwise. I should have known.

My guy handled what he saw as his part – he is a great and honorable protector – and ensured that this man would not be allowed into our home. I was comforted and relieved.

A new maintenance man was sent. He immediately did something similar where I could not complete a sentence, but he wanted to be heard. I pointed out that he wanted me to listen to him but he couldn’t let me complete a sentence. The tension was so high my dear, sweet dog sensitive to me, lay in front of the door not happy with this man’s comings and goings.

This same man had to come back the next day. It still felt uncomfortable, but he was doing all that was asked. He wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t easy. He was in the back room doing his work; I in the kitchen when I saw my burning bowl and felt compelled to light it. As I was burning the protection, thinking all honorable and good things are allowed in my home now, and if he doesn’t resonate he will depart easily. When he came in the kitchen, he didn’t ask or bat an eye, but continued his work. He asked me to check his work and explained the drawer wasn’t going to work properly.

I said, “not your fault at all. You couldn’t have done better. It should have been done properly before.”

As our conversation began to bloom it turned out he had the same experience with the first maintenance man as I did.

We exchanged information and I learned he came to the US at 17, moved out here a few years ago from a place I had history with and sent money to his poor (literally) parents. He also told me he knows someone else who makes soap. As it turned out, he and I knew that very same person. He also knew how cruel that person was and the bullying ways. He had history with this mean-spirited person. I had parted ways with that person because of the vindictive behavior of trying to run me down publicly after I told this person not to use my property without permission. I pointed out the dishonorable behavior and once again, with no where else to go the attack happened.

How did I not learn the first hundred times I experienced this lesson?

As I helped the second maintenance man with his tools to his truck, he stopped and held up his fingers close together. “The world is this small.”

I am so pleased, that if ever I need to have this maintenance man in my home I can now do it with a glad heart.

I grew up in Indiana on a little farm with hundreds of chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys, quail, pheasant and guinea. Yes, it smelled like birds, but that’s not what I remember. I remember how green the grass was, how rich it smelled laying in it cloud watching and how the weeping willow was the tallest climb-albe tree in our neighborhood.

We had horses, a black cat and dog. We also had, like most, a large garden with the usual suspects: carrots, tomatoes, peppers and tons of other vegetables along with gladiolas in rows and rows at the front of the garden. The bulbs were taken out every fall and kept under the house until next spring. The flower type was always predictable, just not the colors.

We canned all the vegetables and even made corn relish every fall. Each hot August my aunts, cousins and I would put on long sleeves, long pants, boots and hats and pick black berries near the creeks. This area was dense with blackberry brambles. We didn’t eat many berries since we were only allowed to go home the minute we filled our buckets, and not before. Now blueberries were another story. I always said they should weight us before and after, charging us the difference. Strawberries were different. They grew small and sweet and had to be picked from the garden each morning or the birds and other creatures would eat them. We had bowls of strawberries and cream for breakfast in the spring.

Keeping a garden was a full time job, or so it seemed. There was always weeding to do or tomato bugs to pick which were disgustingly fat and aggressive. Those mean fat green and black bugs would rear up when they sensed danger. My brother would run at me holding a grasping bug at arms length. He’d make a growling noise, like boys do, and then raise his arm as if he were going to throw it at me. At the last minute he’d wing it at the chickens.

We’d take the tomatoes that the bugs chewed or birds poked and throw them high in the air to land in with the chickens or turkeys. When the tomatoes hit the ground they exploded, spewing tomato blood on the white birds. They ran for their lives. Tomato bombing made us feel dangerous and powerful. Those birds should fear us. They should sense death on us.

The bloody tomato shrapnel was evidence of our crimes, for which we’d have a punishment doled out later. The punished was only half a consideration since future punishment weighted far less then the immense power felt in the moment over those birds; those birds that we had to get up early for; those birds who were considered our “chores”; those birds that kept us isolated in our bird killing world.

We were bird killers. The birds that didn’t get eaten by the foxes and dogs that out maneuvered our traps and killed prematurely, were eaten by us.

The day we butchered them was the day the birds grew nervous. They knew.

Out of sight from the flock, we’d lay the doomed head down on a log, stained from the past killing and land a hatchet on their necks, striking hard and steady, quick and clean. We were murders, but not cruel. Blood spurted. Their bodies, void of a head, would flop around until all the energy dispersed and then the chicken lay there and bled.

In the garage, us kids were in charge of dipping the headless bodies in boiling water by their feet until the feathers loosened. When the bulk of the feathers were ripped off we set to digging out the pin feathers. Inside the house the hot air was pushed around by floor fans, there was no air conditioning. Inside was where the grown ups cut the chickens up for the freezer. We knew we had the better end of the deal.

I didn’t know how to buy meat at the store until I was in my late twenties. It all looked wrong and different at the grocery. No white paper packages like in our lift top freezer all neatly laid out with black writing on them, “thighs”, “breast”, “half chicken”. It felt wrong walking up to a shelf of cooling meat. Too intimate. Too exposed.

I’d been warned to tell someone I was heading to the freezer, just in case I over reached toward the bottom and fell in. That happened to an old lady near my grandma’s house. She wasn’t discovered for weeks.

I grew up so country the first boy I kissed was related. When he called for me one day on our only rotary-dial phone, my step-dad told me that Shannon-boy was my cousin. Mortified, I stopped taking his calls.

Like this:

In the desert the rain evaporates quickly because of the low humidity. Water doesn’t stay in the arid sand.

As I hiked down a wash-bed I saw the swirls of different colored sands. Attracted to the swirls, I bent over and touched the wet sand. My fingers felt attracted to the sand, as if I couldn’t stop myself from touching it. I mushed it and molded it and the only shape I could make was a pyramid. I squatted there in the wash, avoiding others on the overhead trails, I found a doorway to another world. A world of natural possibilities; a world of art that nature created. I could interact with it, but did nothing to create it. This all happened on its own, has been for thousands, millions of years, all without my intervention. This day, I touched it, the reflection of the forces that happen, without my vote, without my input and without my knowledge.

I left a grouping of many little pyramids on the wash-bed. They will be there until the next rain; until an animal walks on them; until the sands dry out and blow away. They are not permanent, these little creations won’t stand he test of time, and definitely aren’t “too pretty”.

I imagine walking down this wash, not being the person who made the sand pyramids, to see the small little creations. Like a tiny Egypt for ants. This idea made me smile.

Not Afraid to Toss Soap Out

I toss soap regularly. I throw soap out without regret. Its one of my secrets.

I try a ton of things, every day, new stuff with soap. If all else fails, I can always toss the soap out, if its a total loss. If I hold on to salvaging every soap I become slightly desperate. I push forward, don’t toss soap without consideration, but I am not afraid to throw it out. Its a simple fear to over come. And it certainly is not real danger.

I think about it this way – each new thing I do adds to my over all education, an opportunity to learn something I had not anticipated. If I harbor fear of failing, fear of tossing out a batch of soap, it keeps me from being daring, trying new things.

I read, or heard, some where that it takes 10,000 hours to master something. I don’t necessarily believe that, but its a good guideline. I’m about halfway to that 10,000 hours. So that gives me more permission to make mistakes, acquire more information, and study soap. I think I might not ever be a master, a true master, where my very nature has changed because of my art, but I can strive towards that end.

I also like the idea of the daily work of becoming… Wiser, better at anything, takes a “chopping wood, carrying water” attitude. The dishes have to be washed. I can resent the dishes or get on board and just do them, so I can get on to the next thing, the next insight, the next day of “chopping wood, carrying water”. Everyone has to wash dishes, its HOW I do those things.

My question, the one I ask, “can I do it with grace?”

Today, I had an argument with my love-mate. It was silly. I was NOT graceful. Everyone has arguments. Some people make the argument bigger, or smaller than they have to be, but I was graceless.

I have no idea if we’ve had 10,000 hours of arguing, but I doubt it. Not sure if that’s good or bad, all I know is my horse ran away. 😉

We still love each other and mended our issue quickly even in the middle of both us trying to be heard and hear the other. It was a good reminder, that the next time I can offer some grace. Because there will be a next time, just like there will be a next time to wash dishes.

So, with that tangent, I push forward, try things with soap, make mistakes and learn. Always learn, and move forward to greater, and greater insight. I can offer more grace to soap making, to my life and to how I am in this world.

Like this:

Follow Your Own Artistic Path

True Story of Mouse and Cheese Soap

I had an idea that involved a mouse and cheese pie shape, but didn’t want to commit to an easily found silicone pie mold and wasn’t sure I’d like making pie shaped soaps. Being a person who loves using tools I have around the house, I avoid buying everything unnecessary…

I also have a philosophy to do more-with-less. This philosophy has strengthened what I know to be my best tool, creativity. Creativity cannot be created, purchased or manufactured. I discovered creativity is my one of my super powers. Read more…

Fall Soaps

Been getting ready for the holidays: Autumn, Halloween, Winter, Christmas… All the high holidays and seasons. First release are these Fall Soaps.

If you’ve been reading my blog posts you’ll know that cold process needs 4-6 weeks to cure, to accurately weight the soap and create a solid, hard bar of lasting soap. So, I started making holiday soaps about a month ago. These are ready to appear on your counters, in your baskets (Halloween gifts) and in your baths!

Ever wonder what else you can give at the the holidays besides sweets? What about a very unique soap?

The scents are Poison Pie with Honey, Blue Spruce, Witches Brew and Apple Blossom. (Keep reading to find out how Apple Blossom fits into Halloween.)

These may not sound like traditional scents for the holidays, yet, I married them with designs that might appeal to your sense of adventure, whimsy and creativity.

Black Bird Poison Pie with Honey

Black Bird Poison Pie with Honey crust is all of it! The hand molded crust is scented with honey fragrance oil. The chocolate part of this soap is scented with a magical fruit scent that is a little heady, yet, creates a swirling combination of scents to open the door for all types of Halloween Sorcery. Each part of these soaps are hand mold, from the ravens, strawberries, blueberries to the crust cross hatching on top… And even the edges of the pie crust. (The raspberries are melt and pour). I purposely made these to look like they came out of the Wicked Witches hut, from Hansel and Gretel tales. These little pies are anything but poisonous!

Blue Spruce

This blue spruce fragrance oil is so true to its name there isn’t a lick of internal arguing. A quick sniff tells exactly what it is: a woodsy clear forest of blue spruce trees appears in your mind’s eye. Why, then, did I decorate it with vines, leaves and pumpkins? Because I wanted the woodsy country side to stand up and greet you. I wanted the interior swirled colors to remind you of the distinction of Autumn and the intrigue of the pumpkins in the field. I hope this did the trick.

Witches Brew

There are two types of soaps scented with Witches Brew. The first, purple oval bars, scented with Witches Brew, has all the things one might think of for a witch on Halloween: an owl, ghost, snail, snake and frog along with a jack-o-lantern on each. Each bar is different and unique.

There are two extra bars that have a more cosmopolitan flavor and have a raven and a book of shadows on top, even down to the moon phases on both books.

Wizard’s Apothecary

The second soap scented with Witches Brew, which is called, Wizard’s Apothecary is slightly different in design. Each creepy green rectangular bar has a wizard’s hat with stars and moons, a skull, a bottle of magical potion with a little skull face on it to indicate it might not be exactly favorable to drink, and topped with darker distinct stars.

The spicy notes of this slightly spicy fragrance oil has hints of licorice and rich patchouli (maybe a hint of sandalwood) which makes for a mysterious, yet familiar and compelling scent.

Don’t Forget!

This soap is created to conjure the Wicked Witch who gave sleeping beauty the poison apple, but this soap won’t put you to sleep. Its a bright apple blossom fragrance that is true and comforting at the same time. It just floral enough without being over powering, and still reminiscent of apple blossoms. Product page here!

Follow Your Own Artistic Path

True Story

I had an idea that involved a pie shape, but didn’t want to commit to an easily found silicone pie mold and wasn’t sure I’d like making pie shaped soaps. Being a person who loves using tools I have around the house, I avoid buying everything unnecessary.

I also have a philosophy to do more-with-less. This philosophy has strengthened what I know to be my best tool, creativity. Creativity cannot be created, purchased or manufactured. I discovered creativity is my one of my super powers.

I’ve asked myself this, “If I don’t have any tools (paint brushes, camera, etc.) am I still an artist?” I realized, being outside, I can use my finger and draw in the sand. I see the world slightly different. I know this because when I bring what I see in my minds eye out to the world it is dissimilar to other views.

Pitfalls Of Making Pie Soaps

After a few attempts I found a process that works for removing cold process soap from the dish in tact and avoiding the known nemesis of a possible design flaw, the dreaded gel circle in the center. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with soap that does gel incompletely. I didn’t want it in this soap.

From a previous batch of soap that was colored with brown oxide I made small mice. I didn’t know what I’d do with them when I made them, but I made them anyway. I let those little mice roll around in my mind for a few weeks while they cured.

As I pondered what to do with the little mice, I realized I was looking at the next batch of soap all wrong. I didn’t need to make small pieces of cheese for the mice, but make one large piece and hand mold each cut bar.

After that change of mind-set, my soap came together nicely. And, no, it doesn’t smell like cheese.

All this I did with my own direction, but being open to taking cues from my experience and environment and not being in a hurry. I gave myself time to considered new ideas.

I believe being creative is about following your own path. I ask myself, on a regular basis, “what am I doing that is new”? Then I wait for the answer.

Creativity takes time. Inspiration takes initiative. When the inspiration iron is hot, I have to strike, I have to take action, of some kind. If I cannot take action on my inspiration in the moment, I, at least, must write it down. If I have an idea for something, no matter what others say, I need to figure it out for myself. There are times, of course, that someone will say something rational that I had not considered.

I know that fear is imaginary, danger is real and the rest is creativity.

Feedback for Artists

One of the most valuable things you, as a patron, can give an artist isn’t just your money, but your thoughts how you experience the artist’s work.

For me, its a fine line, a dance of taking in thoughtful feedback and not letting it sway my creativity, all the while staying open to input. Staying open to those who experience my art.

Guinea Pig Soap

Some people are naturally gifted at creating. Some are naturally gifted at athletics, etc. I would never presume to tell an athlete how to “athlete” any more than I’d tell an artist how to uhm… create.

I enjoy feedback on what your experience was… Did it do the job, did it function correctly? Did you enjoy the colors, scent, design? Did it make you think of something you’ve not thought about in a long time?

Patronage

With all this, I offer a reasonable trade for that valuable patronage. A true patron, in my opinion, values not just the object, but the process the artist goes through to create. Not everyone can create. Just like, not everyone can be an athlete.

Offer

And I understand even if you love something, its hard to feel motivated to comment. Comments have some form of magic – those comments inspire the writer to continue and inspires others to share their ideas, thoughts and feelings… that is a powerful thing, untouchable, yet moves others in a way that might not have happened. I call that magical.

Failed Soaps

Trials and tribulations of a Soap Witch

40 Plus Soap Batches

I’ve had a good run. Almost every one of my 40 plus batches has turned out to some degree… Until recently.

The last four have monumentally failed. Failed in a way I couldn’t find the “happy accident” place of soaping peace.

One failed because I used full fat coconut milk in my lye solution and an (for me) untested fragrance oil. I tried to salvage it. At first it was beautiful. After a few days of being cut, air got to the soap and I noticed brown spots otherwise known as Dreaded Orange Spots, or commonly referred to as DOS.

Over Coming

In this uncured state, which is perfect for molding, I began to cut the bars up and make small balls and stars. I was pleased with myself about my diligence to repurpose my soap. And then, days after that, all of it turned this awful brown. Not a salvageable brown, but that kind of brown that intuitively you know something is wrong with it and avoid touching it. Ick.

Ok, moving on. I’m over my soaping mistake. Maybe, but it lingers in the back of my mind that I cannot even re-batch this and all those hours of rolling balls until my palm was sore and all those hours carefully cutting stars has been wasted.

Holy Grail Soap

I’m going to try my hand at translucent soap. I watch a Youtube video. And I do, 15 times. I want to not just understand it, but know it. So I acquire my ingredients and get started.

Part way into the recipe I’m stumped. How do I make this powered substance into the clear liquid the video blogger is pouring into their perfectly clean crockpot? How? Where did that come from? Does stearic acid come in a liquid form? I stop what I’m doing, with gloves on (oh, I should wipe my keyboard and mouse down, damn) I look up stearic acid and the many forms it comes in, which is not an easy question to ask the Google Gods. After I realize I’ve not made a mistake, but the video failed to include that important piece of information, I continue. Now, my happy experiment attitude has been affected by a touch of frustration. Yet, I forge on.

After I’ve made the entire batch, which has taken hours, and unlike cooking in a crock pot where it can be forgotten for hours, soap needs to be attended to and kept in mind. So I don’t fully begin another serious task, but create mindless task to take up the time, like sweeping the floor and re-pinning soap pictures.

My translucent soap, although I purchased a $20 bottle of Ever Clear, and have all my ingredients, sticks to the sides of my crock pot and does not come out as directly as the video. I comfort myself with this idea, “well at least I didn’t break it.” This soap might not look pretty, but it’ll still work.

Starting Again

I mold this soap and start a new batch to figure out what I did wrong. Well, after much searching about this mysterious clear stearic acid. I discover I can melt it in the microwave. It stinks, but I’ll get over myself in order to achieve my goal… The holy grail of clear soap.

This next batch, which now I’m hours into this process and determined, fairs a bit better since I’ve decided to strain it. I get 4 1/2 bars (from a 24 oz recipe) of mildly clear soap. Not translucent, but less opaque than my cold process. Of course I’m not satisfied, but now I’m tried and have to clean.

I voice my frustration and lack of knowledge in a group, a group I forgot that was run by the person who made the video, and receive this feedback, “Did you like the video Bhakti?”

Wow. I’m taken aback. And that’s hard to do to me. As a teacher, when someone who is truly studying a technique hits a level of frustration, and all do because not one Zen Monk as ever taken my class, its my job as their guide to help them overcome their frustration and see clearly. Not offer a biting remark. Not add to the frustration, but offer a clear path.

Now, I’ve lost all faith in my teacher.

Moving On

I’m going to make cupcakes. I’m going to use a tried and true recipe and practice my piping. I’m going back to territory I’ve had success in.

I know that its important to have a water discount or my piping will be a long wait. So I do that. I use sodium lactate to harden my cupcakes and a touch of beeswax. All is going well, and then, my batter accelerates. Alarmingly so. I decide to veer from my recipe, which I’ve not done for the 40 previous batches, and add water to see if I can get it to loosen. I’ll take the hit and allow it to cure longer in the molds. I can be patient.

I ended up clumping the thick batter into the cupcake molds. I am not deterred. I stick it in the freezer and am shocked to discover after about 30 minutes they seem like I can unmold them. I do not.

I finish the cupcakes and two days later I unmold them. The red oxide stains my hands.

Since then, I’ve made more cupcakes with more mistakes, a six oil hot process that I could not get loose or liquid enough to pour, so my desired design was not going to happen. I stopped the cooking process too short. Not to waste my Shea butter, cocoa butter, coconut oil (and other oils) and lovely fragrance oils I rebatch the entire 2.5 pounds of hot process AND 2 pounds of the still wet-after-three-days cupcakes. Now I have mud – mud that doesn’t smell delicious and took 3 more hours to cook.

I might have burned my oils, but the soap lathers with creamy bubbles. I’ve learned that ugly soap is still useful.

I might not have achieved my initial soaping goals, but I’m richer in experience, understand more about those who put up videos (some are only there for self promotion, not the position of teacher) and have plenty of soap to give away for the holidays.

Discovering

Soaping, as I’m discovering, is so much more about how I approach each task, what I understand, and how I handle frustration then making beautiful soap. I, of course, as an artist, want to manifest my ideas and execute those ideas in a way that creates beauty, along with creating a soap that is lovely for skin. And, still, it is not lost on me that this process, this art form, is so much more than that.

When I’ve made a soap that is more beautiful than I anticipated, I’m elated. I didn’t set out to have that feeling, I stumbled upon it. I have been chasing that feeling, that Christmas morning feeling, with soap and in my other endeavors. I’ve just been reminded that the higher goal is to enjoy that feeling when it comes up and move on to the next experience – joy or disappointment – and fully embrace that too.

Happy Soaping to all you diligent soapers. For those of you who have been doing it for years, you have my admiration. I now understand a small bit of what you’ve gone through with this art from. You’ve certainly earned my respect.